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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Ill Wind of It comes replete with verve and belief Full blown in its gusto and rote of surety Yet its goal is to confound and mislead And bury all the true faces of love It’s an ill wind that disguises the truth Sanctimonious it will spout with rhetoric Yet, does not have the single iota of concept To fathom the soul Instead it will feed you on hope filled lies And abuse you in moralities disguise It will strip you bare of your life And suffocate you in its righteousness Nail you up on suffering cross And bleed you dry For the sake of words It will steel from you every ounce of an earthly haven And pretend the promise of heaven While casting you down into the pits of guilt Sinner Blasphemer How dare do you dare to dream Or dare to embrace the flesh and life Given to you, in your awareness, only once How dare you partake of this, creations abundance Immoral. Un-immortal Bone Of death You eat As punishment And punishment Your only deliverance For being so fragile So naked And so innocent Beggars you in the hell, the hell ! Of your lives These you live without compassion Without consideration And without A choice And love; your ever non ending wish of You lost and loose Daily Hour by hour in your non-recognition Of what and who you are Instead you prefer to spill your fear In explanatory books Of what you have not the slightest inkling of Your Philosophies of penitence and humble servitude Do not proclaim Or announce Exultant ! Or grasp the magnitude Of your own single being You prefer the paltry dust On which to dine your ever starving tongue And seek to define yourselves by idols Of car, of cross, of nation, of race, of rich, of belief, of faith, of purpose, of television Of job, of chemistry, of science, of answers, Of puerile and un-fashioned faces of all your excuses and expectations Of love Woeful and pitiable You ascend from birth to death In an oblivion of yourselves Without ever conceiving your right to the title Of perfection No instead you wallow In the mires and swaps of your own reflection And pronounce yourselves dead Look at how bad ! We really are It’s an ill wind indeed That disguises your truth
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